


Lost in the Haze of a Dream

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputation, Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Gen, Hallucinations, Hypnotism, Infection, Injury, Mind Manipulation, Mistaken Identity, Pain, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: There’s heat radiating from his shoulder and every heartbeat spreads the knowledge that something is terribly, irreconcilably wrong.Bucky breaks his arm.  Like always, Steve is there for him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 19
Kudos: 66





	Lost in the Haze of a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains some fairly repulsive depictions of intense injury and other unpleasantness. If that troubles you, proceed with caution.

“Stay with me, Buck.”

The train car rattles, the air reeking like something curled up and died in one of the overhead storage bins. Bucky feels feverish and freezing all at once, and seeing daylight through the windows—warm and mild and perfect, a beautiful day before this—only makes his head spin. There’s heat radiating from his shoulder like an infection coursing through his blood, and every heartbeat spreads the knowledge that something is terribly, irreconcilably _wrong._

Bucky tries to swallow, but his throat is too dry. Steve is beside him, eyes wide and face paler than usual, his thin shoulders drawn up in worry. “No offense,” Bucky manages hoarsely, “but I’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I’ve tried that,” Steve mutters.

“What?”

“Distracting you.” Steve’s hand is on Bucky’s forehead, mopping at the sweat there. His hand is like ice but it’s also grounding, and anyway, moving to dislodge him would only lead to new waves of pain. Bucky would rather not puke over Steve’s shoes if it can be avoided. There aren’t many others in the car, but he doubts anyone who is stuck riding with them would appreciate it. “Not the easiest thing when you’re determined to wallow in misery, I’ve gotta say.”

Bucky laughs at that, a choked sound that’s almost a sob. “Oh, _sorry_. So inconsiderate of me.”

“It really is.” Steve forces a smile and moves his cold hand from Bucky’s face to the knot where he tied the sleeves of Bucky’s jacket over his good shoulder as a makeshift sling. Bucky can’t remember exactly when he did that. Everything before they caught this train to get to the hospital is a blur. When he tries to grasp the memories, it’s like prodding at a sore tooth. He’s barely afloat in the haze of pain as it is, and trying to find mooring only pushes him under.

Bucky doesn’t know if this is normal. He’s never broken a bone before.

“Honestly, the problem is you’re spoiled,” Steve continues. He takes his hand away from the jacket, apparently satisfied with the setup. The fabric is tied so tight that Bucky can’t feel anything below his shoulder. Given how badly _that_ hurts, the numbness is probably a blessing. “Not your fault, Buck, everybody who walks around not dying all the time is. You get so used to feeling normal that a little scratch takes you out.”

“A scratch,” Bucky repeats. “Do me a favor, punk: Once you get me home, tell my mom this is just a scratch. I want to see the look on your face when she pounces.”

“I wouldn’t get the chance to tell her,” Steve counters. “Your sisters would’ve already killed me.”

“You’d deserve it.” Bucky rests his head against the window. The few other passengers in the car are staring at them. He can’t imagine what he must look like; the broken arm’s the only injury commanding his attention, but he took on four guys trying to save Steve’s ass. His face probably resembles a slab of meat more than anything else at this point. At least he can’t feel it.

“I know I would.” Steve hangs his head a little. For once in his life, he has the decency to look ashamed. “Bucky, you didn’t have to do that back there. I could have—I would have taken it. It’s not your fault I can’t keep my damn mouth shut.”

“They would have killed you, Steve.”

There’s a jolt—the train must be switching tracks—and Bucky’s vision explodes into white light. He hears a hiss escape through his clenched teeth, smells the rot or mildew or whatever’s in the car, but he’s blind. His shoulder’s throbbing, stabbing his nerves again and again. His face is wet.

He feels Steve’s hand on his before he sees it and he grabs tight. His sight returns in stages, fading from white to an almost textured gray, like he’s surrounded by concrete. Then Steve grunts because Bucky’s squeezing too hard, and he’s back on the train car and Steve’s fingers are bloodless from Bucky’s grip.

Bucky tries to pull away, but Steve holds his wrist. “It’s okay.”

“I’ll break your hand, you dunce.”

“Then we can sign each other’s casts.” Steve’s free hand is massaging at Bucky’s right wrist now, loosening his hold without making him let go. “The hospital’s the next stop, all right? We’re almost there.”

“I want my mom,” Bucky mutters, knowing how pathetic he sounds. His face is hot, but for the most part, he’s really too exhausted to care. He just wants to bury his face against her skirt like he could when he was a kid. He’s dimly aware that she can’t kiss a broken arm better, but at least at home he could hide in his bed until the pain recedes. At least his room wouldn’t smell like death.

“I can call her once we get there,” Steve offers.

Bucky only shakes his head. She wouldn’t get there until after his arm is set, anyway. All a call would do is make her worry. She’ll be worried enough when he comes home in a cast. She’ll fret about permanent damage and lost work opportunities and probably things Bucky hasn’t even thought of himself. Why drag her into all of that before he has to? It would be selfish.

“Tell me what you want, Buck.” Steve is still holding his hand, and he meets Bucky’s eyes, deadly serious. “Whatever you want. I owe you one. I’ll make it happen.”

“Stop getting into fights,” Bucky says. Steve smiles and Bucky feels the corners of his own mouth ease upward. He might as well ask for the moon.

“You want a glass of water instead?”

Bucky stares at him. “We’re on a train.” Did Steve get himself concussed before Bucky intervened?

“Oh.” Steve releases Bucky’s wrist, though their hands remain entwined. His cheeks tinge pink. “Right. Look, I don’t have a ton of experience doing the comforting, you know?”

“Just do what I do when you’re miserable.”

“You always ask if I want a glass of water.”

“When I can see straight again,” Bucky tells him, “I’m gonna drown you.”

“Fair enough.”

They ride in silence for the next few minutes. If Bucky keeps from moving altogether, he doesn’t feel much beyond a dull ache. There’s still no sensation at all in most of his arm, not even pins and needles. The thought of jostling his shoulder to loosen the jacket-cum-sling makes Bucky’s eyes water, but he’s starting to worry that his blood supply might be completely cut off. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t feel my arm.”

Steve reaches out like he’s about to touch the jacket before thinking better of it. He’d been the one to wrap Bucky up. Bucky hadn’t even been able to look, blinded and sickened with pain. For all he knows, there’s bone sticking out under the fabric. “That’s better than the alternative, isn’t it?”

Bucky shoots him a look. “I don’t think it is.”

“I broke my ribs that time I got whooping cough.” Steve’s hand is still hovering in front of Bucky’s shoulder as if he can soothe the wound through proximity alone. “I didn’t feel it, at least not for a while after. Ma said our bodies do that to keep us safe. Give us time to run away from whatever hurt us, I guess.”

There are people filing into the car. The train must have stopped. Bucky’s surprised he didn’t feel it, but he’s not about to question any small mercies. A couple of the new passengers stop directly in front of them. Wanting the seats, Bucky supposes.

“You done here?” one of the strangers asks Steve.

Steve finally pulls his hand free. He rubs it in circles at the small of Bucky’s back. “Give us a minute,” he says. “Buck, can you stand up?”

Bucky grits his teeth. His whole body goes stiff as he braces himself for the movement, and when he shifts his weight to stand, a cry starts in his throat and he has to bite his tongue to stifle it. The world whites out again.

When it comes back, they’re already in the hospital. There’s a nurse leading them down the hall. Either the sight of Bucky was enough for them to forgo the waiting room or Bucky’s been passed out from pain indefinitely, and he’s not sure which thought is scarier.

Steve’s hand is still rubbing his back. Each step he takes is a new pulse of agony through his shoulder. Just like on the train, the air smells of decay and death. If anything, it’s worse now.

Bucky wonders if he’s dead. The thought makes a giggle grow through his chest, but he stamps it down because it’s not funny. He can’t be dead. He wouldn’t hurt if he’s dead. It’s just a broken arm. People live through worse every day. _Steve_ lives through worse. Bucky’s being pathetic.

“Did he want to see his mother?” the nurse is asking.

“Not right now,” Steve says. “There’s too much happening; it would only be a distraction.”

The nurse nods. Before Bucky can ask what they’re talking about, she stops and opens a door. It’s an examination room; the scent of rot mixes with that of antiseptic. It’s thick and cloying and he fights not to gag. There’s a doctor in a white coat and that means the pain’s about to stop, but Bucky’s heart still stutters and skips in his chest.

“Come on,” says Steve, who’s probably never had the luxury of being scared of a doctor in his life. They guide him to the examination table, and it takes the three of them to get him up on it. Wave after wave of pain crashes over him as Bucky struggles to keep his head above water.

“A hospital,” the doctor says. “Why would you bring him to a hospital? Why is he aware of this?”

“It wasn’t my preference,” Steve says. His hand is on Bucky’s right shoulder, and the jacket’s gone now. He doesn’t remember them taking it off. “You’ve enhanced his perception, his mind as well as his body. Everywhere I’ve taken him, he’s come back to himself. If he were sedated from the start—”

“We barely have enough for the procedure.” The doctor’s reaching around Bucky, pulling leather straps across his body that pin him to the padded table. At his feet, the nurse is doing the same with Bucky’s ankles. His heart pounds, and each beat sets his blood screaming. “At the rate he metabolizes—”

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice cracks.

Steve is bent over him, and the hand not on Bucky’s shoulder is stroking his face. “I’m here. I’m here, Bucky. Focus on me, all right? I’ve got you.”

“I don’t wanna be here.” Bucky tugs at the restraints. Each jerk of his body sets off fireworks behind his eyes, but they’re tying him up and he hurts and this is _wrong._ He doesn’t care whether Steve thinks he’s a coward or whether his arm gets set. “I don’t wanna be here, Steve. Get me out.”

“I will.” Steve pushes Bucky’s hair back from his face. “I will, I promise. Just a little longer, okay? They just want to make you feel better. Then we can go home. We can go wherever you want.”

“Hold his hand,” the doctor orders. “It might settle him down.”

“He’ll break mine,” Steve says. But his voice is calm, his face steady as he reaches down to take Bucky’s hand in his own. Bucky squeezes reflexively. There’s a ring on Steve’s finger that Bucky hadn’t felt on the train. He’s driving it into Steve’s flesh the way he's clutching at him, but he can’t make himself stop.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” the doctor answers.

Bucky wonders if this is Steve’s usual hospital, if he’s as much of a brat to the staff as he is whenever Bucky looks after him. It would explain why he and the doctor are bickering like an old married couple. It’s a calming, comforting thought, but then the doctor’s lifting his head to strap a mask around his face and Bucky’s fighting again, kicking and tugging and making Steve bleed.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says. His voice is choked, tensed. “Bucky, look at me. _Focus_ on me. It’s just laughing gas. It won’t hurt you.”

There’s a hiss like a valve’s opening, and cold air hits Bucky’s face. It almost stings when he inhales, tingling in his nose, but it’s not like the burning in his shoulder. It stops in his lungs instead of blazing all throughout him. The air smells sweet and chemical. It’s drowning out the rot.

“There you go.” Steve’s free hand is stroking his forehead again. “That’s it. Breathe, Bucky. It’ll make you feel good.”

Good isn’t exactly how Bucky feels. The pain is still there, still pulsing in time with his heart. The doctor’s still too close, giving orders to the nurses—wasn’t there just one nurse before?—and the words keep threatening to pull his attention from Steve. But now it all feels distant. Like a balloon knotted around his wrist, the way his dad tied them when he was little. He doesn’t feel like laughing, but he doesn’t feel like crying either.

On his left, he feels something tug at him, and he can’t help but turn his head.

His arm is gone.

Halfway between his shoulder and the space where his elbow should be, his arm just ends. There’s a ragged stump of bone, caked with gore and blackened blood, and there’s yellow and red cords that must be nerves and veins poking out, like the end of a sweater before his mother weaves in the tails. His skin is jagged and torn and it’s the wrong colors. It’s yellow and green and black.

His arm is _gone_.

“Bucky,” Steve’s saying, but Bucky can’t tear his eyes away. The room is spinning. He can’t tell if he’s laughing or screaming.

“ _Bucky._ ”

Steve’s hand is on his face, forcing him to look away from the space where his arm isn’t. His hand is bigger than it should be. Everything about him is bigger than it should be. For a second he doesn’t look like Steve at all but then the world snaps into place around him and it is Steve, just _bigger_ , and he’s tearing away the straps pinning Bucky down like they’re made of newspaper.

Steve picks him up then, cradling Bucky to his chest, and Bucky’s still not sure if he’s laughing or crying.

“Steve…my arm…”

“I’ve got you, Bucky.”

“My _arm_ —”

“I’ve got you,” Steve says. “I will never, ever let you go. You’re safe. I’ll take you somewhere you feel safe. _Focus_ , Bucky. Where do you want to go?”

They’re moving. The mutterings of the doctor and the nurses are getting farther and farther away. Steve’s carrying him. Steve’s so _big._

“What happened to you?” Bucky mumbles.

“Do you want your mother?” Steve asks. “Do you want to go home? We can put the couch cushions on the floor, Buck. Tell me what you want.”

Bucky stares up at him, his mind trying to reconcile the idea of ever needing to look _up_ to meet Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t feel like he’s being held now; he's just floating with Steve tethering him. There are ripples of pain and sedation colliding together in the surface of his mind. The air is sweet. Nothing seems real anymore.

“I just want to sleep,” Bucky says. He wants the world to make sense when he wakes up.

“Okay,” Steve says. He’s still walking, and the light overhead dims. They’re moving away from it. A staircase. Steve’s carrying him down a staircase. Bucky’s eyes flutter, blinking more rapidly with each step, and the light is so far away so fast. How steep are these stairs?

He clings tighter to Steve, but he’s too exhausted to really worry, more tired with each step. Steve has him, and Steve's impossibly strong and solid. Steve won’t ever let him fall. And it’s dark, and they’re going deeper. The doctor has to be miles away now. Nothing hurts.

By the time Steve stops walking, the light’s completely gone. Steve has his hand, their fingers intertwined. Bucky feels another hand carding through his hair, and he knows without opening his eyes that it’s his mother.

He inhales deeply, his lungs filling with that sweet chemical taste. He exhales. Then he’s just gone.

*

Something’s missing.

Bucky’s lying on Steve’s couch. There are blankets and pillows strewn across the floor.

Something’s gone that ought to be here, and Bucky’s mind keeps stalling as he tries to figure out what. It feels like when he lost a tooth as a kid, pressing his tongue against the gap where it had always been before, but he’s not missing any teeth now.

Bucky can smell burning meat. He feels feverishly hot and his stomach twists.

“Feeling better?” Steve asks. “I tried cooking for you, but—well, at least the building's still standing, right?”

“Why would you make bacon for a sick person?” Bucky asks. It’s so ridiculous, so _Steve_ , that he almost laughs. But he’s struck again by the emptiness. Gaping. All-encompassing. _Wrong._

There are tears on his face then, and Steve reaches out to wipe them away.

“Don’t cry, Buck. I’ll take care of you.”

“You can’t take care of yourself,” Bucky says, but Steve pulls him into a hug and Bucky’s too overwhelmed to fight it.

“We’ll figure it out.” Steve’s rubbing his back, trying to loosen the tension there. He’s not successful. Bucky’s mind is still racing, pushing against that gap he can’t place. “I’ll be right here with you.”

“’Till the end of the line?”

“Of course.”

Bucky sinks into his embrace then, letting his body go slack. He stops trying to find whatever missing piece he’s worked up about. He's tired and Steve’s got him, and that’s enough. He doesn't have to keep searching and struggling. He doesn’t need anything else as long as Steve is here.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the song [Scene One: Regression](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2UHWFU5uFY) in the Dream Theater album Metropolis Pt. 2: Scenes from a memory.
> 
> This fic was heavily inspired by [the amputation scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=melBplejuyw) from episode seven season one of Agent Carter.
> 
> Nitrous oxide was the only sedation/anesthetic I could envision sort of working for a super soldier metabolism since it's being constantly refreshed in the system as a patient breathes it.
> 
> Check out [my Tumblr](https://lauralot89.tumblr.com), if you're into that sort of thing.


End file.
